


The Probability of Faith

by TheBehaviorist



Category: Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Apples, Death, F/M, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Shinigami, Slow Burn, Suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:28:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23281741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBehaviorist/pseuds/TheBehaviorist
Summary: They were prototypes. The first generation of L's successors. Good intentions aside, Watari had always anticipated that they would fail. The first child, A, was unable to handle the pressure of living up to L and took his own life.Years later, an evidence custodian discovers a parcel with disconcerting contents.
Relationships: L (Death Note)/Original Female Character(s), Yagami Light & Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 10





	1. Prologue

_August, 2001._

They pay their respects to the dead man in the box.

Heads lowered, the Hildebrands are the first to approach the casket. Their children tag along. When the youngest sees the corpse he starts to cry. His parents usher him away. The Joneses visit the dead man next. The wife, Margaret, breaks down into a fit of loud sobs. The husband - I don't recall his name - consoles her. Dryly, I try to remember Margaret having had a single meaningful interaction with the deceased but come up empty. Janice McDonald and Rhonda Vaughn, the elderly half-sisters, straighten out their black skirts and arching spines before shuffling to the front of the line. Their heels click as they walk, echoing against the high church ceilings. They must think they're discreet when Rhonda nudges her companion and says, "I'm surprised _she_ bothered to show." Janice titters in reply. They retreat to the pew after several minutes of what I can only assume is feigned sympathy.

Of course, similar sentiments fill the crowded aisles all morning. Their jibes are directed to me, the only child of the man in the casket.

Elsewhere, Father John hovers at my side, echoing the whispers of the other attendees by expressing his condolences but urging, "You have yet to pay your respects."

 _I know,_ I want to bite back, but think better of it. _I'm here, aren't I?_ Instead, I carry myself to the front of the sanctuary with the poise and sincerity expected of a dead preacher's daughter. My dress is modest. There are soggy grey bags hanging under my eyes (I avoid makeup and half a night's sleep to achieve the "grief-stricken" look). 

The man in the box is hardly my father. His lips are turned upward. He never used to smile. The casket is adorned with flowers he pretended not to hate and pictures he wished weren't taken. My gaze lingers on the young girl that accompanies him in many of the photos. She is doe-eyed and thin and has a mess of brown curls sprouting from her head. Like her father, she doesn't smile.

I still don't smile.

Father John's service is all bells and whistles. Meanwhile, the Hildebrand children play hide-and-seek under the pew. Margaret weeps throughout the ceremony. The sisters exchange gossip between bible verses. From the back of the sanctuary, I watch the crowd. I judge them like any good Catholic girl.

"-I've never seen anything so unnatural," Janice mumbles in a hushed tone. The latter follows her slack-jawed sister's gaze to the pew positioned closest to the back door. Masking my amusement, I turn to take in the subject of their disdain.

Admittedly, I am unnerved when I lay eyes on the peculiar guest. He looks like some kind of endangered bird perched atop his seat with skin bleached whiter than my father's corpse. Clumps of black hair fan his face and jut from his scalp like ruffled feathers. There's a thumbnail lodged between his front teeth. Unsanitary. I wrinkle my nose in distaste.

I'm staring and I don't even care. What's with this guy? He hardly embodies the type of company that my father tended to keep.

Maybe the man feels my gaze burning into him because he turns and catches sight of my wandering eyes. It's his owlish, black stare that gets me the most; my spine nearly breaks from the resulting chill. I might have missed the fleeting quirk of his lips had I not been so blatantly scrambling to piece the man together. When I realize that I've been staring for too long, blood rushes to my face. My gaze veers to Father John, whose words are suddenly of great interest.

I know that the bird-man saw me; a temporary crack in my picture perfect, grieving daughter persona was visible. Inwardly, I berate myself for the unwanted exposure. Then, I close my eyes, inhaling candles and incense meant to mask the otherwise musty church air. When I open them again, I plaster on a pensive look. Father John shares a lighthearted anecdote from my father's youth. Once he finishes, a single tear trails down my cheek.

When the final prayers have been spoken and Bible verses read, my father's casket is closed. The workers load the embellished box into the hearse. Father John ushers the crowd toward their vehicles as we exchange assurances to meet at the burial site.

On my way out the door, something strikes me as curious. Perhaps, if the bird-man is curiosity in the flesh then I am the cat poised for death.

The guest book in the foyer is filled with pages of handwritten signatures. I linger behind the crowd, deciphering the names of my childhood home in the little black book, one by one. There is only one name I don't recognize.

Leland Dedo.


	2. Malice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recap: An unsympathetic woman attends her preacher father's funeral under the guise of a grieving daughter. While there, she makes a habit of people watching the guests and locks eyes with a peculiar stranger. Curiosity gets the better of her; she checks the funeral registry and learns the name of the man: Leland Dedo.

_December, 2003 (Approximately 2 years later)_

With Kira dominating the headlines it didn't make the news that evidence was missing in a local suicide investigation. Not that the police were openly advertising their misconduct. But word got around. People were talking. 

I'm an evidence custodian with the Cheshire Constabulary. In other words, I catalogue, organize, and store evidence from ongoing cases then fill out mountains of corresponding paperwork. The job requires an astute eye for detail and above all, trustworthiness. 

Lawd, the supervisor on the graveyard shift, occupies the front desk when I arrive at the office. He's a middle-aged father-to-be with worry lines and a salt and pepper beard. Before the incident in question he was a pretty down to earth guy. His commanding officer must have come down on him pretty hard because he's had a stick up his ass for the last few days. The entire department is currently under investigation, myself included. 

He grunts at me in greeting between gulps of piping, black coffee. In return I (only just) smile politely, shuffling to the back offices where my desk is stationed.

"There's a parcel on your desk, Martell," he tells me before I turn the corner. I hum in acknowledgement. More useless evidence from the influx of recent heart attack victims. Wonderful. 

My mood is soured at the sight of mounds of unkempt paperwork littering my desk. There, atop the coffee stains and needless knickknacks, lies the parcel. Its contents are wrapped meticulously in brown paper and set with twine. A personal package, I realize. After my neighbor adopted a lucrative career as a porch pirate I decided to have my mail sent to the office. Though I don't remember having ordered anything as of late. There's no sender or return address on the parcel but its recipient is clear. My name as well as our department's address is printed on the front in handwritten, red marker strokes.

I set the parcel aside, attention brought back to my disheveled workspace. The first twenty minutes of my shift are spent clearing the mess made by the daytime custodian who shares my desk. I've never actually met him but his work speaks volumes. Messy. Disorganized. Careless. He is the antithesis of quality police work. In comparison, my documents are categorized into pristine, color-coded folders. Not a paperclip out of place.

Lawd has us picking through dead people's belongings for the majority of our shift. Must be why the officers on the ground have dubbed us the 'vultures' of the department. He keeps tabs on us to prevent another mishap, though Lawd himself doesn't have the experience handling evidence to know what he's looking for. It's our job to bring order to the chaos of personal affects and crime scene photographs and forensic evidence piled into evidence lockers. Sometimes our department makes a game of it. We take bets on the crime and cause of death then check the corresponding police reports.

It's unsettling how often I'm right. 

Following an uneventful eight hour shift, I wipe down my workspace. The air is rank with cleaning chemicals when I leave, a subtle _fuck you_ to the daytime custodian who often leaves notes complaining of the smell. I shrug on my coat and drape a scarf around my shoulders. The parcel is tucked under my arm. As I glide toward the exit, Lawd's seat is already vacant.

***

The house is empty. Cold. I crank on the heat. A reporter on the television hums in the background. The coffeepot in the kitchen gargles as steaming, black liquid drains from the reservoir. The parcel sits in a neat bundle in the kitchen. I cut the twine and unwrap its contents. My stomach plummets into my lower extremities.

I re-examine the packaging. Nothing. I don't find answers, but the question lingers, a massive elephant on my dining room table in the form of a thick, black bible. The same piece of evidence that went missing in our department weeks prior. The book is decorated in gold trim and lettering. Its cover is dull, seemingly from regular use. There's a noticeable crease in the book's fractured spine. 

My pulse quickens and I take a step back, fearful that my presence alone is enough to further contaminate evidence. Was I being framed? I pace the length of my kitchen, running my hands over my face until my dry skin burns from the repeated contact. My watery gaze flickers to the television. A welcome if not momentary distraction. 

_"A death row convict is suspected to have been murdered earlier in the week after a live news broadcast was aired from Interpol's ICPO exclusively in the Kanto region of Japan. The famous investigator known as L is believed to have used this broadcast as a ploy in learning the whereabouts of Kira, the person or persons tied to the unexplained death of hundreds of criminals."_

_"Not more of this crap,"_ I plead. Hammering my thumb on the remote's buttons, I sneak another peak at the bible mocking me from across the room. 

"It seems you're not fond of the Old Testament."

A strangled cry lurches from my throat as my limbs twist wildly toward the low, scratchy growl sounding from the corner of the room. I drop the remote; it crashes to the floor and skids out of sight. Heart pounding against the walls of my ribcage, I drink in the sight of the _thing_ in the corner. Human skin, scales, and blotches of dark fur are sewn across fractured bones to construct flesh. The abomination's head resembles a canine's skull with jagged teeth and a snout-like nose; its nails are sharpened daggers curled around its fingertips. The creature's eyes are empty sockets, holding no indication of life. It towers over me. Watching. Like a scientist observing a rat in a box.

"I'm Malus," it greets, either uncaring or oblivious to my terror.

I gape, mouth cotton dry. I don't remember having flung myself across the room but there I am, shaking and sputtering out words that sound like they've been tossed in a garbage disposal.

"What's wrong? Cat got your tongue, human?"

When I finally do respond, the almost incoherent sound comes out as a sloppy accusation, "What are you?"

It lets out a hollow laugh; it's a noise that sends goose bumps crawling all over my skin. "A god of death."

"God of death," I mime, as though testing the words on my trembling lips. Was I hallucinating? I clamp my eyes shut, then reopen them, blinking rapidly. It's still there. Hesitating, I ask, "Are you here to kill me?"

Tilting its head, the death god, Malus, lets out a contemplative hum before replying, "No." Then it points one of its razor-edged fingers at the bible on the table. "Something of mine has come into your possession."

"You can keep it," I retort.

"Oh, no. I don't want it back."

"Then why are you here?"

"That's no ordinary bible," Malus explains, creeping forward. Closer.

"Just what are you saying?" I snap, growing uneasy from his cryptic answers.

He plucks the bible from my table and dusts off the cover with his decomposing hand. Holding out the book to me, he baits, "See for yourself."


	3. Apples

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recap: An evidence custodian, Martell, is under investigation along with the rest of her department when evidence goes missing in a local suicide investigation. Later, a parcel appears on her desk. She takes it home and opens it, unbeknownst to her that it contains the missing evidence: a Death Note disguised as a bible tied to a menacing shinigami by the name of Malus.

There's something poetic about a bible that quietly urges you to kill people.

It's been weeks since Malus made his first appearance. I've abandoned the notion of what I once considered fact in favor of a grim version of reality where death gods and killing notebooks exist. Malus told me about the Death Note and its rules; I made the mistake of telling him that I didn't believe him. Never mind that there's been a killer running loose bidding criminals to die of heart attacks with the wave of a fucking pen. Nope. I wrote off the death god.

He laughed at that. Turns out that shinigami don't like to be questioned. The next day a man was dead. Then another. Granted, someone is always dead when you work in a glorified morgue but this was different. 

I wondered if Malus might be Kira but quickly ruled it out. The shinigami likes to talk. And the more the death god talked, the more I started to realize he doesn't give a damn about people. Kira at least has the sense to masquerade cold blooded murder as _justice_ , of all things. He operates on a broken moral compass whereas Malus has no need to measure the humanity of his victims. Still, I can't figure out the death god's angle.

"Why me?" I quiz Malus on the way to my nightly shift. I rarely speak to him but there's something thought provoking about the grim reaper nipping at the heels of a human girl.

"You're clever. You tell me," he responds in that way of always twisting my questions around and around until my head threatens to snap clean from my neck, replies which are simultaneously empty in content and consequential in meaning. 

I don't ask again.

We're herded into the field when I arrive at the department. Despite the late hour, the vulturous media are already there, surveying a dead body from afar and circling the taped off site with their sophisticated cameras and distorted scripts. The reporters are starving, heckling us as we move about the crime scene: the apparent stage of Kira's most recent attack.

I take photographs of the dead man while the other custodian on duty bags and tags nonexistent evidence. Malus floats among the gossiping reporters in the crowd. They speculate the identity of the body. _Another dead criminal_ , they whisper. _Another heart attack victim_. The physical evidence corroborates their hearsay reporting. Between photographs, I try to decipher whether this particular death was the work of Kira or my vindictive shadow. 

"Martell," Lawd barks, tearing my gaze from the camera lens toward two figures approaching in my peripheral. One is Lawd. The other is someone I don't recognize. The stranger sports a black trench coat and an oversized hat tipped precariously over his eyes.

"Yes, sir?" I greet, spinning on my heels to meet the pair.

"I'd like to introduce you to Mr. Watari. He's been sent from the Kira task force in Japan to assist us with the recent influx of heart attack victims here in Cheshire."

My blood goes cold; an injection of adrenaline circulating like liquid ice in my veins. I resist the urge to scowl at Malus, opting instead to smile politely and extend my hand to Mr. Watari. "I'm happy to hear we'll be collaborating with our international colleagues. We're a little out of our element with everything that's been happening. It's great to meet you."

He takes my hand and promptly releases it. "The pleasures all mine, Ms. Martell. Officer Lawd speaks fondly of your work with the department. A shame to hear evidence has been vanishing. Perhaps I can be of some assistance in resolving the mystery, no?"

I weigh his words; they're ripe with suspicion, no doubt. "That would be helpful. Thank you, sir."

Lawd steers Watari away to introduce him to the other custodian on duty. I snap some final shots of the dead man, mindful of the shinigami suddenly looming over my shoulder.

"Don't talk. I wouldn't want you to look like a lunatic but just so you know I think that guy has it out for you," Malus goads.

"No, he has it out for _you_ ," I hiss under my breath. "Did you write that man's name in the book?"

He cakes on a stupid little grin that makes my insides coil into tight knots. "Maybe."

"Where is it?" I ask in reference to the Death Note.

"I would assume it's in the same place you tried to lose it last."

I'd spent a week trying to figure out where to keep the book and eventually decided on the bookshelf in my bedroom. The notebook, dressed as a bible, hides in plain sight among textbooks and academic journals and my collection of guilty pleasure crime novels. I haven't touched the Death Note since.

Not long after meeting Mr. Watari, we pile evidence into the trunk of Lawd's police cruiser and return to the department. The officers on duty gather in the conference room presumably to discuss the logistics of their investigation. Meanwhile, I'm subject to a backlog of paperwork left over from the daytime custodian.

"Ms. Martell, would you mind joining us in the conference room?" Mr. Watari asks, interrupting my menial task. I furrow my brows. Custodians don't often attend these gatherings. Though admittedly I did have a recurring tendency to interrupt their meetings by not-so-coincidentally stopping in and offering to refill Lawd's coffee cup half a dozen times. _"I was on my way to get a refill anyway,"_ I used to tell him. Over the years I'd managed to put together bits and pieces of their investigative process.

"Uh, sure." I stammer, setting my paperwork aside and sauntering into the meeting room. Lawd instructs the other attendees to place their phones and pagers in a plastic bin. I follow their lead. When we're all seated, Lawd locks the conference room door and introduces Mr. Watari. Meanwhile, my eyes dart between the room's occupants as I try to gauge whether everyone here can be trusted. That package didn't send itself, after all. 

Mr. Watari moves to the podium at the front of the room as Lawd finishes speaking. "Thank you for your kind introduction, Mr. Lawd, and to all of you for taking the time to be here today. As a representative of the Kira task force in Japan I believe it imperative that I inform each of you about the current state of our investigation. We feel it entirely plausible that a second murderer, a second Kira, may have emerged here in Cheshire."

Malus lets out out a raucous laugh from the back of the room. A deafening sound resembling a train scraping against metal tracks. It feels like my lungs have deflated; I don't dare breathe a word among the eruption of expletives and bold proclamations spewing from the assembly of police. Lawd resorts to slamming his hands down on the podium to get everyone to shut up. "Quiet!" He commands and the dust is quick to settle. Lawd clears his throat and resumes speaking in a level tone, "Mr. Watari, I think what my colleagues are wondering is why the task force feels that some copycat may be in Cheshire when Kira is thought to have killed plenty of criminals worldwide. This isn't thought to be an isolated problem."

Mr. Watari strikes the keys on his laptop for a time before the projection of a world map appears at the front of the room. It's decorated with red markers. He explains to us that each of these markers represents a heart attack victim. The markers are mostly distributed in high crime areas with the exception of Cheshire, which is covered with hundreds of markers piled on top of one another until all I can see is red.

It would seem that the death god has been busy. 

"An in depth investigation of Cheshire's heart attack victims reveal that many of these deaths are not criminals, which deviates from Kira's ideology," Mr. Watari contests.

I speak up, "Isn't it possible that Kira is just sending your task force on a goose chase? I'm certain not all information has been made available to the public, but from what the headlines are saying it was recently confirmed that Kira is in Japan, right? These new deaths seem to contradict the evidence placing him there. Isn't it likely he's just trying to throw you off his scent with these new deaths?"

Mr. Watari pauses, seeming to consider something before responding, "That's certainly a possibility."

Other members of the audience throw out questions that sound like muffled accusations. I don't really hear them; the grating laughter of the monster lingering in the back of the room overshadows everything else. 

The meeting ends and I resume work at my desk, taking care to file away the mess of thoughts piling up in my head. I stay calm in the wake of Mr. Watari's presence, who seems to make hourly rounds of the department. Our eyes meet on several occasions. I smile each time. Everything is fine, I tell myself again and again until the end of my shift.

When I arrive home, I'm tired. I shut the door behind me and deadbolt the lock. Malus waits for me in the foyer, watching me with his dead eyes. In the comfort of my own home I don't care to pretend anymore. The words spew from my mouth without a filter. "What is wrong with you? Are you trying to get me arrested? I need answers now! Who sent that parcel? And why are you just thoughtlessly going around killing people? Our department is already under investigation. It's not a good look when people are having heart attacks in my fucking back yard!"

The death god thinks my temper tantrum is funny. "So now you believe the Death Note can kill, hm?" He muses. "I can't tell you who sent that package but I'll tell you something else instead. A story. I think you'll enjoy it. In fact, it might satisfy some of your relentless questions."

I throw myself on the worn couch cushions in the living room. "I don't want a story. I need answers."

Except the death god doesn't really care what I need. He proceeds to tell his story anyway. "There exists a decaying, dark realm ruled by the king of death beyond the reach of humans. It's a lawful place filled with disorderly and chaotic beings: shinigami. We live with the sole purpose of writing down humans' names in our notebooks in order to extend our own lives. One day, a particular shinigami dropped his notebook in the human realm and left in order to retrieve it. There, he saw blue skies and vegetation. He couldn’t help but compare it to the barren and lifeless fields of his own home. The shinigami also saw humans who prayed to gods much like himself. He thought back to his own world where the beings of his realm held reverence only for a wretched king. With this knowledge, the shinigami grew resentful. He retrieved his notebook and plucked the juiciest, plumpest apple he could find from the humans' gardens."

"Why an apple?"

"Shinigami love apples. Anyway, upon his return the shinigami laced the fruit with poison and offered it to his king. Except the king's death had unforeseeable consequences. The shinigami who were once lawful realized that their chains had been broken. They were free to cause havoc and do as they pleased. Many chose to flood the human realm in order to curb their boredom."

"Is that why you're here? To _curb_ boredom?"

"No. I was subservient to the death king. His laws are broken and I aim to restore them. My role here is to return the defectors to the shinigami realm. That's why those humans died. I needed to draw the attention of other shinigami. Those humans were fated for death anyway, I simply sped up the process. The consequences of letting these shinigami continue to run rampant around the human world far outweigh the handful of humans' lives I've already taken. As the human in possession of my Death Note, I need your help to preserve my realm as much as you need me to save yours."

***

The window shades are drawn and the hotel walls are painted in pale light. A man sits on his unmade bed, hunched over his laptop. His legs are drawn into his chest, bed spread littered with papers. He thumbs through them, nibbling absently on the thumb nail of his unoccupied hand. An empty tea cup is balanced on one of his knees.

"What do you think, L?" Watari asks from the other side of the screen when he's finished bringing the detective up to speed on his activities in Cheshire. 

L hums thoughtfully, "Draw background checks on all of the staff with the Cheshire Constabulary. I want to know who goes out of their way to steal a bible."


	4. Chaos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recap: Malus teaches Officer Martell the rules of the Death Note. She doesn't believe him. The death god, in turn, begins writing down names in his notebook. 
> 
> Weeks of increased heart attack deaths in Chashire prompt L to send Watari to England. Lawd introduces Watari to the Cheshire Constabulary as an investigator with the Kira task force in Japan. Watari shares the theory that a second Kira may be active in Cheshire.
> 
> Later, Martell demands to know the shinigami's motives. Malus shares an anecdote about the king of death, who rules a decaying world occupied by death gods whose only aim is to take human lives in order to extend their own. A particular shinigami gifts a poisoned apple to the king of death. Upon the king's demise, the shinigami realm's remaining occupants realize that they are no longer obligated to follow the laws imposed by the death king and flood the human realm. Malus explains that he wants to restore order to the shinigami world.
> 
> Elsewhere, L tells Watari to complete a background check on the Cheshire police.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter references sensitive topics (see tags for additional info). Reader discretion advised.

When I was in secondary school the teachers used to make us play that icebreaker, _Two Truths and a Lie_. It's this game where we took turns making three statements about ourselves, two facts and one fantastical fib. The other students were then tasked with rooting out the false statement. Our instructors said it would help us get to know each other but I never understood the merit of a game that teaches teenagers the art of deception.

Anyway, I used to be really bad that game. My lies were farfetched; I didn't have any interesting truths to share. But then again, I didn't want the other kids to know me. Not really. I was the shy girl in the back of the class that didn't get on with other kids. They didn't like me. And the more I tried to disappear, the more I felt they saw me. As I got older, I realized that it was because I wasn't like them. My clothes were too baggy. Hair too curly. Face too plain. The things I liked were weird. They didn't like different so I became the same.

It turns out that the best way to win _Two Truths_ and a Lie is to only tell lies. 

Over the years, I've become something of a connoisseur of elusive and well spun lies. The death god is no exception; there's something about the story he weaves that I don't trust. But speaking from experience, feeding lies is the quickest way to spot them.

"I'll help you if you stop writing names in the Death Note," I resolve.

Malus stays quiet. All I can hear is the rasping sound of his breath. "Very well," he says then snickers. "It'll be interesting to see how long you last. You've had every opportunity to burn the notebook, after all. I wonder if there's a part of you that's itching to try it out."

"I'm not a killer."

"I've heard that before," he retorts under his breath.

My phone chimes in my pocket. It's Lawd.

_Can you pick up an extra shift today? We're short staffed and there's another body._

I inhale sharply, turning an accusatory glare on Malus.

"It wasn't me. Anyway, I think you should drop this wannabe investigator act and go to Japan. That’s where this shinigami is hiding out, right?"

" _Wannabe investigator?_ " I sneer, "I'm plenty good at my job. That's not even the point. I can't just walk away from my life here when there's an ongoing investigation in my department. Not to mention all the heart attack victims that have been piling up thanks to you. Don't you think it would look suspicious if I left right now? Besides, the Kanto region is huge. There's no way we'll be able to just waltz around looking for shinigami."

"Fine, fine," he concedes. "You know, it's only a matter of time before another shinigami shows up here. This so-called Kira human must be smart enough to recognize the deviation in his killing pattern. Even if this Kira is too stupid to realize there's more notebooks out there, I wouldn't put it past another shinigami to come sniffing around for your Death Note. You should consider keeping a page of the notebook handy. For protection."

My fingers tug on my earlobe. A nervous habit. "Just how many other shinigami are out there anyway? And why would they come looking for the notebook? Don't all shinigami already have their own Death Notes?"

Malus muses, "A few dozen. Maybe a hundred. Maybe more." he chuckles at my horrified expression. "And sure, we're all in possession of at least one Death Note. But I did tell you the king of death is dead. He was the creator and distributor of shinigamis' Death Notes. In other words, notebooks which are lost or destroyed can't easily be replaced, and shinigami without a Death Note can't kill humans to extend their lives. Therefore, a shinigami can easily be killed by stealing or destroying another shinigami's Death Note. Quite the predicament."

"But wouldn't that prompt shinigami to go into hiding to protect their Death Notes?"

"That might be true of the shinigami remaining in our world, but the ones who came to the human realm aren't interested in hiding. I'd hardly expect a _human_ to understand the complex nature of shinigami."

I roll my eyes. "Yeah, 'chaotic beings' and what not. I heard your story."

"You could always just write down the name of that Kira investigator, you know? That would certainly free you up to go to Japan. I'm not really supposed to do this but I could tell you his name, free of charge."

"I hope you're joking." 

Malus answers with a lopsided grin. 

"I think we should use the presence of the Kira task force in Cheshire to our advantage. If I can gain Mr. Watari's trust then maybe he'll share more about the case. That should clear my name from their list of suspects and narrow down our search."

The shinigami moves closer. I resist the temptation to recoil. "Fine. Not sure how you're planning to manage that feat but we'll try things your way. For now. But know that I'm not particularly patient," he warns. 

"Relax." I flip open my phone and write to Lawd, _Sure, I'll be in within the hour._ "There's this old idiom: 'there's more ways to kill a cat than choking it with cream'. I think we can kill the cat and still have plenty of cream leftover for drinking, so to speak."

A delighted smile stretches across his face, "I speak many languages and have not a clue what that means."

"Yeah, well I'd hardly expect a _shinigami_ to understand the complex nature of humans."

***

Malus' offhanded warning to keep a spare page of the notebook on hand nags at me, and I leave the house with a neatly folded page of the Death Note tucked away in the shirt pocket of my uniform. I won't use it. Not unless I really need to. Upon arriving for my extra shift at the department, I get the opportunity to meet the incompetent daytime custodian with whom I share a desk. Officer Cornish is a squirrelly bloke with greasy skin and hair. His features are smooshed close together on his small face, like a pug without the fat folds and bulging eyes (or any endearing qualities for that matter). We shake hands and I hope he doesn't notice my distractedness; carrying around what feels like a live bomb will do that to someone.

Cornish turns out to be the unprofessional slob I anticipate. My arrival is met with misfiled documents and an abundance of incorrectly sorted evidence from the latest batch of heart attack deaths. I spend an obscene amount of time fixing his mistakes. I even end up picking up personal papers spilling from our shared desk onto the floor. They're financial statements and invoices from past due bills. As if my opinion of this man wasn't already sullied. 

Thankfully the work is second nature. I multitask, thinking up ways to gain Mr. Watari's trust. Then after several hours of monotonous tasks, I escape to the break room and brew a fresh pot of coffee, filling my favorite mug to the top. With the exception Malus, I'm alone. 

"In theory, the person who stole evidence from our department is likely the same person who sent me the Death Note. Does that mean that person can see you?" I question the death god discreetly while blowing into my steaming coffee mug.

"Depends," Malus tells me. "That person would have had to have touched the notebook and failed to relinquish ownership after passing it off to you. I should caveat that by disclosing that any human who relinquishes ownership of the Death Note also loses their memories of the notebook."

I close my eyes, letting out a prolonged sigh. "So you're saying the person who sent the Death Note might not even remember sending it?"

Malus shrugs. "I'd hardly think it matters. The unpunished thief remains a thief."

"Okay, Confucius." I jab, taking a prolonged sip of caffeinated goodness. His point is moot. But it gives me an idea. I find Mr. Watari in Lawd's office. The latter waves me in when I knock.

"What's up, Martell?" Lawd questions, tired eyes fixated on his computer screen.

"Can I speak with you and Mr. Watari for a moment, sir?"

He looks between us, then drops his gaze to the cup of coffee in my hand. "Is that fresh?"

"Just made a pot."

He stands, grabbing an empty mug from his collection. "Catch me up to speed when I get back. I'm going to grab some of that." 

Lawd leaves, closes the door, and turns the corner. Mr. Watari leans against the wall, arms folded. He nods, signaling for me to speak.

"I know how to catch our evidence thief," I tell him.

We orchestrate a plan. Lawd makes a show of dragging dozens of money-filled trash bags across the department lobby. One of them snags the edge of a desk and (as planned) bills pour onto the floor in front of half a dozen officers. That gets the department talking. With hundreds of thousands of pounds of counterfeit bills stuffed into our evidence room, Mr. Watari and I occupy a dimly lit office surrounded by computer monitors showcasing different angles of that same room. We play the waiting game. It's brutal. I haven't slept in over twenty four hours.

"Isn't police entrapment illegal?" Malus interrogates knowing all too well I can't answer in the presence of Mr. Watari.

I stifle a yawn. Mr. Watari makes a habit of repeatedly checking his watch. Minutes pass in silence. 

"How long do we have to wait?" The death god whines. "I'm bored."

The door opens. Lawd steps inside the closet-sized space, checking in for the umpteenth time. "Anything yet?"

I spin around in my chair. "I think I saw a bug crawl across the room at one point. That was a highlight."

He snorts. "Head home and get some rest. I already had you working a double. We can take this over."

"I'd like to keep at it a bit longer." I say, stretching my arms over my head. "Besides, I know for a fact you haven't slept either. We can trade off when you get back." I turn around, eyes latching back onto the screen. 

Lawd doesn't leave. In fact, I hear him inch further into the room. "Are you disobeying an order from your supervisor, Martell?" His voice is low. Daunting.

I wash down a lump in my throat with tepid water. It leaves my mouth drier than before. "No, sir."

He moves away "Good. Go home." The door slaps shut. 

I pout as Mr. Watari smiles apologetically. "We'll keep you updated. You're quite lucky to have a superior who acknowledges your physiological needs."

"Yeah, I know," I groan, draping my coat over my shoulders and giving the monitor one last look over. Nothing eye-catching.

Ambling from the room, down the stairs, and through several corridors, I take one last rebellious peek at the evidence room on my way out. It's sealed when I get there. I hold my ID badge to the scanner. It beeps and I enter.

The room is darker than it looks on the monitors. It's an open space with vaulted ceilings. Only as recently as Kira's appearance had it become overwhelmed with piles of bags, plastic bins, and boxes grouped together. Chaordic organization has never been my preference. Lockers occupied by an abundance of evidence line the walls. In the back there's smaller rooms acting as additional storage spaces. I move deeper inside, eyeing the blinking cameras.

"What are you up to?" Malus's voice shatters the silence. I let out a muffled gasp which transforms into a scowl. From his giddy expression, it seems he enjoys making me squirm. "A little jumpy aren't we?"

I nod to the cameras, a subtle reminder that we're being watched. The cameras don't record audio but I don't want to risk looking like I'm talking to myself.

"I can't help it. I was starting to go stir crazy in that surveillance room."

We reach the storage spaces furthest inside. After checking the locks on the doors, I come to the disappointing conclusion that nothing's been tampered with. It's only as I make my way back toward the entrance that I hear the beep indicating someone's swiped their ID badge on the scanner. It's dark enough that I'm able to maneuver behind some boxes before being seen. The door cracks open. Then clicks shut. There's footsteps. Someone's inside.

There's metal scraping on concrete. Muffled cursing. I chance a look at the figure. Even under the dimmed lights I recognize him. Cornish. He's standing on a ladder beneath one of our cameras, tampering with its cords.

_You've got to be kidding me._

He repeats this process several times over, moving between the cameras. That's when I mess up. My phone chimes. A fleeting tone in the background. He nearly falls off the ladder, whipping his head back and forth with that stupid, guilt-ridden expression on his face. My heart races.

"Whose there?" he asks the purportedly vacant room. When there's no reply he tries a second time, "You'd better come out here right now!" Cornish climbs down from the ladder. He lifts the bottom of his shirt, revealing a holstered gun. I humor myself with a reminder that evidence custodians don't carry firearms. 

I could run. Or stay hidden. Mr. Watari was bound to notice that something was off about the cameras. Then again, I might not have another chance to learn why Cornish sent me the Death Note. Why did it have to be this guy of all people? I breathe deeply before removing the folded paper from my shirt pocket and tossing it out into the open. Nudging one of the boxes, I poke my head over the top.

Cornish's finger wavers on the trigger as he points the gun toward me.

"I can see you. Come out with your hands over your head!"

Lifting my arms and standing straight, I obey his orders. "Officer Cornish. I didn't hear you come in."

"Don't bullshit me. Why are you hiding back there?"

"I dropped something when I was in here earlier." I point to the folding piece of paper that lies between us. Gun still aimed at my face, he comes closer, bends to pick it up, stands upright, then unfolds the page.

"Bible verses? What are you? Some kind of religious nut?" Briefly, he examines the page before something changes. His eyes become wide, chin trembling. He sees Malus. "You? N-no! Not again!" He stammers, much to the death god's delight. Cornish redirects his gun at Malus, hands visibly shaking. "P-please, we made a deal! Don't kill me, I'm begging you!"

Cackling, Malus answers, "I don't know. The skin on your meaty human bones is far too tempting to resist."

"Get back!" He screams at Malus, eyes welling with tears.

"I can make him go away," I tell Cornish. He does a double take as though he can't believe I'm still standing there.

"Y-you. You can see him! He works with the Devil! No one can control the Devil!"

 _He thinks I'm the religious nut?_ "You left a parcel on my desk three weeks ago containing the Bible that went missing from our evidence room. Why?"

Cornish shifts his gaze between Malus and I, croaking out inaudible sounds before finally getting out words that I can understand. "I-I don't know what you're talking about! He promised not to kill me! Please don't let him kill me!"

"Who?"

At perhaps the most inopportune moment, the scanner beeps and several armed officers enter, including Lawd, pointing their guns on Cornish. "Drop the gun and get on the ground now!" Lawd hollers.

Cornish and I lock eyes. Then just like that, he turns the gun on himself and pulls the trigger.


	5. Audition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recap: Martell agrees to work with Malus if he stops writing names in his Death Note. When Martell works to gain Watari's trust, Malus suggests she keep a page of the Death Note on her person for protection.
> 
> Lawd calls Martell in to work a double shift where she concocts a plan to find the department's evidence thief. With help from Watari and Lawd, they set a trap, placing bags filled with counterfeit cash in their evidence room. After hours of surveying their trap via a live feed, Lawd orders Martell to go home. Rather than follow these orders, she visits the evidence room only to encounter Officer Cornish, the daytime custodian with whom she shares a desk. Martell hides while Cornish tampers with the cameras. He becomes belligerent when he finds Martell, revealing a gun and making it clear that he's the evidence thief who first procured the Death Note and likely passed it along. Martell purposely creates a situation where Cornish touches a page of the Death Note in hopes of learning more about why he sent her the notebook. This plan backfires when Cornish sees Malus and unexpectedly shoots himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter references sensitive topics (see tags for additional info). Reader discretion advised.

I'd never seen so much red.

Malus' red eyes blinking back tears of laughter.

The pitter patter of red droplets cascading from the ceiling and dousing our evidence containers.

Blood staining my knees as I kneel into a puddle of red, checking Cornish's neck, wrist - anything - for a pulse.

And when I knew he was dead, I crawl from the crimson pool, collapsing away from his body, muscles tense. Jaw set. Trembling. There's a bitter taste of red in my mouth. Red pumping in my ears. Red prints everywhere. The suffocating scent of red flaring in and out as I gasp for breath. 

_He wasn't supposed to die_ , I tell myself over and over, winding myself up like a music box in anticipation of the same numbing melody of thoughts. Again. 

I come to in one of the department's interrogation rooms. It's an eight by ten foot unsightly space with paint peeling from the soundproofed walls and vinyl floors. One of the night shift officers once told me that they painted the interrogation rooms red to cover up all the blood. I always assumed he was joking. There are cameras mounted on the ceiling. A table separates two chairs in the center of the room.

Lawd and I sit in that room verbally sparring for what feels like hours. He's angry. He probably has every right to be. I should have left before everything escalated with Cornish. Truth be told, I don’t remember much about what Lawd says. I go through the motions with him, nodding my head when appropriate and making some semblance of coherent response when asked a question. Mostly, he lectures me.

Mr. Watari knocks and enters at some point during this unproductive exchange. "Might we have a word?" he interjects with an urgency in his voice that makes me sick to my stomach.

Lawd doesn't look happy. "Don't move," he commands before joining Mr. Watari in the corridor. My eyes veer to Malus in the corner of the room but I don't dare utter a word amongst the flurry of raised voices and shadows mingling animatedly under the doorway. 

Something catches my eye. I watch as one of the cameras in the room tilts downward no more than a quarter of an inch. It's subtle. In fact, I have to tell myself that I didn't imagine it. Was someone watching me?

I'm still fixated on the camera when the pair re-enters the room minutes later. Lawd explains that Mr. Watari would like to ask some questions about Officer Cornish's death. He tells me that he'll be right outside the door should I need anything, and I'm uncertain if I should interpret his words to be comforting or a veiled threat. Regardless, I nod and Lawd leaves.

Mr. Watari sits across from me. "Can I get you anything to drink?" His tone is even. I can't read him.

"No, thank you," I insist though my throat is dry, voice raspy. Did Mr. Watari think Cornish's death was related to the second Kira theory he'd been spinning since he'd arrived in Cheshire? I tug furiously on my earlobe.

"I'm sorry for everything that's happened today. You've been though quite a trauma."

Trauma? That throws me off. "Are you supposed to be the good cop in this scenario?" I joke, perhaps inappropriately.

Unamused, Mr. Watari continues, "I understand that humor is one way of dealing with such events. I don't mean to give you the wrong impression. You're not in any trouble. My only aim is to gain clarification on the events that transpired in the evidence room."

I take another peek at the camera. "I'm fine. I didn't really know Officer Cornish. We'd only just met earlier this afternoon."

"The brutal death of even an unfamiliar colleague could certainly be jarring in light of the circumstances, but I understand what you're saying."

Knitting my brows together, I stare down at my hands on the table. They're pale. Clammy. I can only imagine what my face must look like. "I don't mean to sound callous. It's just that I see bodies, uh, dead people, on a near daily basis these days. What happened to Officer Cornish is sad but I'm fine."

We fall into an uncomfortable bout of silence. "Very well. Can you please recount for me the events leading up to Officer Cornish's death?"

"Sure," I take a breath before launching into the story. "After Lawd told me to leave I thought I would take one last look at the evidence room to ensure nothing had been tampered with. While there, I encountered Officer Cornish and attempted to hide. I noticed him messing with the wires on our cameras and figured I should keep an eye on him to see if he planned to steal our counterfeit money. Sadly, I didn't have enough foresight to switch off my phone. It made a sound and he obviously knew I was there. That's when I saw he had a gun. He spotted me and told me to come out and keep my hands up, which I did. After that he pulled out this piece of paper - he mentioned that it had bible verses on it - and he started going crazy, talking about the devil. It was almost like he was hallucinating. I tried to talk him down but then he, well, shot himself..." my voice trails off.

"Yes, the other custodians recovered that piece of paper. We believe it may have been from the bible that was stolen. It seems we managed to catch our evidence thief after all, though at an unexpected cost.

It takes every ounce of self-restraint not to visibly cringe when Mr. Watari mentions that they've recovered the page from the Death Note. Inwardly, I scream, _I left the fucking page behind_ , another hellish tune for my internal music box to play on repeat.

***

Collapsing onto my bed, I drag my hands down my face. When everything was said and done, Lawd thought it best I be placed on administrative leave pending completion of the investigation into Officer Cornish's death. Not only did they have the page of the Death Note, but I no longer had access to it. Granted, it was unlikely that anyone would come to know what it actually was. Custodians routinely wear gloves when they collect evidence for obvious legal reasons. As long as no one directly touched the page they couldn't see Malus. 

I chance a look at the bible sitting on my bookshelf between copies of _The Tiger in the Smoke_ and _City of Glass _. I'll have to find a better hiding place for it sooner rather than later, I tell myself.__

____

____

"What will you do?" Malus questions and I don't have an answer. He sits beside my window, basking in the sunlight that pours through the glass. We stay like that for a while, thinking. I close my eyes. A text from an unknown number ruins the calm.

_The Purple Carnation, 7PM. You'll find a reservation under my name. Please dress for the occasion and arrive in a timely manner. - Watari_

Malus cocks his head as I read then reread the message. When my eyes scan the text for the tenth time he cuts in, "What is it?".

"Mr. Watari wants to meet."

"Uh oh. That can't be good," the death god lets out a hollow laugh. 

I fetch my laptop and feverishly begin searching _The Purple Carnation_. My search engine tells me it's an upscale restaurant in Liverpool. They have a website with pictures of the menu; I learn that a single, unpronounceable entree is the equivalent of a weeks' worth of groceries. What exactly did Mr. Watari have in mind? I couldn't afford to dine at a place like this, much less play the part of some minted debutante. Had he somehow learned about the Death Note? Would this be my last meal before being dragged behind iron bars? 

My thumbs dance over my phone's keyboard, replying, _I'll be there_.

I spend much too long obsessing over this unfamiliar role, searching the depths of my bathroom cupboard for old hair products, then taming my wild curls with a straightener. My face is painted with expired makeup until the bags under my eyes coalesce against the creamy, porcelain undertones of my skin. In the back of my closet is a simple, wine colored gown with ruffled bell sleeves and a loose fit. It's a simple yet elegant look that brings forth unpleasant memories. I file them away, stepping into the dress and checking over my reflection in the mirror.

After applying the final touches of lip gloss, I decide to leave early in anticipation of rush hour traffic. I arrive at _The Purple Carnation_ at seven on the dot. The restaurant glows with intimate hues of candlelight. It's decorated with jewel encrusted chandeliers and vibrant tapestries. In the far corner is a piano bar. The player runs his fingers over the keys with practiced ease, eliciting soothing sounds for the crowd to digest alongside excesses of food and wine. I inform the staff of our reservation and am promptly led to a cozy booth at the back of the establishment. Mr. Watari isn't here yet. I take a moment to study the other patrons. They show off elaborate gowns and silk trimmed, Italian tuxedos. Most are couples. Malus gets a laugh out of that.

"Isn't this Watari guy a bit old for you?" he teases. 

"Shut it. This isn't a date. That's weird," I whisper harshly under the chatter of the crowd. A waiter stops by the table, rattling off a list of appetizers and drinks that I've never heard of in an accent I hardly understand. I tell him I'll wait for the other member of my party to arrive and he shoots me a quizzical look.

"I was under the impression this was a table for one, madame."

My face reddens under the dimmed lighting. I order an old fashioned and send him away, retrieving my purse and digging for my phone. Malus cackles, "It sounds like you've been stood up."

"I told you to stop talking." I hiss, fingers gliding over my phone's keys under the table. _Where are you?_

"Excuse me," a young woman suddenly appears and I reflexively look up. "Are you Ms. Martell? There's a phone call for you at the bar."

 _What's going on?_ "Thank you," I say, standing and following her lead as she weaves through the tables. The woman gestures to a land line behind the bar. I take a deep breath, picking up the phone.

"Hello?"

"Officer Martell. Hello," A synthesized voice greets from the other end of the line.

I don't reply immediately; the voice catches me off guard. "May I ask whose calling?"

"You may. I hope you won't be offended that I'm unable to provide a legitimate answer at this time."

Continuing to hold the phone against my ear, I look around. Apart from a handful of waiters and waitresses moving in and out of the kitchen, I'm alone. "Okay. What is it I can do for you? I'm going to wager a guess that you're a colleague of Mr. Watari."

"Mmm. Yes, a _colleague_. Tell me something, Officer Martell. I have in my possession the result of a rather detailed background check reviewing everything from your academic records to your family ties to your personal romantic history. I know your full name is Fayre Aoife Martell. You're twenty one years old. Born November 2nd. Unmarried. You originally hail from Winchester, England though your father moved you to Winsford after your mother passed away while you were in secondary school. Your father also passed only within the last two years - my condolences by the way - and left his estate in your name. You've been living in the house ever since. Only within the last year did you finish your studies at Lancaster University with a degree in Criminology. While at school, you procured a position with the Cheshire Constabulary working the overnight shift as an evidence custodian and remained in that position after graduating. I'll admit, Officer Martell, I'm at a loss. There are dozens of pages here and yet I feel as though I've hardly learned a thing about you."

I'm speechless. He's caught me off guard. Unprepared. The feeling is foreign. My palms sweat, heart drumming erratically as I twist my fingers around the phone cord. Just who is this person? I end up giving a cringe worthy response. "My…romantic history, huh? There's not much to talk about there," I laugh humorlessly. "It sounds like you're trying to read between the lines."

He doesn't miss a beat. "Perhaps. The reason I'm calling is because I'd like you to tell me something about you that I don't already know."

Tugging on my earlobe, I curse that damned waiter for having not already brought my old fashioned. "I don't really see how that's-"

"It's entirely relevant. I'd like to think I could trust you given your history as a law enforcement officer."

I don't know what to say. I put the phone down for a moment, thinking through the implications of not providing a satisfactory answer.

"Are you still there?" the voice booms, prompting me to place the phone back against my ear.

"Yeah, sorry. You just caught me off guard is all."

"There's no need to be nervous. Think of this as a…platonic first date. You tell me a bit about yourself and we'll see how it goes."

"I'll give it a shot," I resign, lowering my voice, "I...I'm very good at knowing when someone is lying."

He doesn't answer right away. I can tell he doesn't expect _that_ response, but he humors me anyway. "Oh? Can you quantify your odds of detecting a lie?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe ninety eight percent."

"Ninety eight percent," the robotic voice echoes back. "Interesting," he emphasizes before the line abruptly cuts out.

"Hello?" No response. "Are you still there? Hello?" I slam the phone down on the hook, convinced that I'd completely blown his little test. I couldn't blame him. _I'm very good at knowing when someone is lying?_ I sounded ridiculous. Massaging my temples, I storm back to the table and throw back my old fashioned.


End file.
